Especially not when he has Scarlett by the arm, the gun in his hand digging into her temple.
I can’t look at her though. Can’t think about how bruised she looks. How naked and vulnerable.
I need to keep my eyes on him.
“Drop your weapon or I kill her.”
“I have no intention of shooting you. I plan on using my hands,” I say, setting the pistol down.
“No, not good enough. Into the water.”
“Take the gun off her.”
“I don’t think so.” He cocks the gun instead.
Dante comes into view in my periphery. Marcus’s eyes shift to him.
“Both of you. Pistols in the water.”
“Mother fucking—”
“Dante!” I order.
“I won’t let him—”
“Drop it.” I pick up my gun and throw it overboard. It barely makes a sound.
“Cris—”
I glance at him. “He has Scarlett.”
Dante’s gaze shifts from me to Marcus and back. He drops the gun into the water.
“Good boys.”
I take a step toward him. I wasn’t sure what I’d feel when I saw him again. Wasn’t sure if all the rage over the years would burn me up, take over, turn me into a beast that’s just caught his prey.
It doesn’t though. And I don’t know if it’s Scarlett at gunpoint that has muted that beast. That’s at least tempered it for now.
I take another step and hear someone from the other boat call out to Marcus. Tell him they need to move.
“You’re going to miss your ride,” I tell him as the boat teeters beneath us and the larger one waiting on him moves slightly farther out. “Let her go. You’re not taking her with you.”
“I’ve had my fill of her already,” he says, expression cocky, his words making my hands fist.
I force myself to breathe and take another step. He’s lying. It’s what he does.
He backs up a step to match mine but he’s out of room.
“Marcus. Let’s go!” a man yells from the other boat.
Marcus turns around, drags Scarlett a step.
I charge him. I’m almost to him, only an arm’s reach away. I know I can grab him. I know it.
But he does something I don’t expect.
He raises an arm to shoot his pistol into the air. Scarlett screams, and a moment later, he shoves her hard and she goes toppling over the side of the boat.
In that split second, as her body tumbles overboard, I’m frozen in place.
I can have him. For years I’ve been living with one purpose. One goal. To kill Marcus Rinaldi.
No. Two goals.
To find out what he said to my mother and then to kill him.
But he’s grinning like the fucking Joker, running to the other boat. Scarlett bobs on the water’s surface just once. She can’t save herself, not bound as she is, and the water swallows her scream as it swallows her body.
6
Scarlett
It’s freezing. My god. How can it be so cold?
I’m kicking but my arms are bound and I’m sinking. Just sinking. It’s so dark below me. Inky black. I’m a strong swimmer and I’ve never been afraid of water. But tonight, I’m terrified. The open sea, the darkness of it, overwhelm me as the little bit of the light from the boats above fades too fast.
I have a few seconds, I think, before my lungs force me to breathe. Force me to take in air when all they’ll get is water. Icy cold sea water.
Then I feel him. One powerful arm banding around my ribs and pulling me up with him. He’s a strong swimmer too. Stronger than me. He’s fully clothed and he’s hauling me up with him. How did he even find me down here?
As soon as we break the surface, I open my mouth only to suck in air and salt water. I choke on it, coughing, my nose and throat on fire.
“It’s all right. I’ve got you,” Cristiano says.
I’m not sure what’s colder, the water or the air? I still can’t move my arms but I’m thrashing against him, kicking wildly, desperately.
But he holds tight, keeping me above the surface. “You’re safe.”
Another set of hands close around my arms and I’m hauled up into the boat. A different one than the fishing boat that’s bobbing, now deserted, not too far away.
I’m on my belly throwing up water. How much did I swallow in those moments I was under? It was moments, right?
Cristiano is beside me, hand on my back.
After what I hope is the last of the retching, I lay my cheek on the floor of the boat. This one doesn’t stink like the other one.
I feel something cold at my back then, at my wrists. I try to pull away, but Cristiano shushes me and a moment later, my arms are free. I rub them, right hand around my left wrist first, then the other way, the skin raw.
Cristiano’s hands touch my shoulders and then he’s wrapping something warm around me. A blanket.
I look back at him as I hold onto the blanket. He’s soaked, his eyes locked on me, watching me so closely. Dante comes into view behind him. He’s soaked, too, and staring at me. Did he go in after me, too?
“Cristiano,” a man says, drawing my attention.
Cristiano drags his gaze to the man.
I follow it to his uncle who looks a little worse for wear.
“We can catch up with them,” his uncle says. “Get that bastard and finish this.”
“No.” Cristiano shifts his gaze back to me.
“What do you mean, no? He’s closer than he’s ever been!”
“No,” his response is quiet, slow. He doesn’t look away from me to answer but bends down to lift me into his arms. “Back to the island,” he nods to another man. He walks us past his uncle, into an interior room and closes the door.
I realize I’m shivering. That noise is my teeth chattering.
“There’s no tub,” he says in that way of his, that abrupt, awkward way he has. It makes me wonder again how much he’s been around people. It’s not that he’s uncomfortable. Not at all. He just doesn’t waste words and doesn’t seem to care how he comes across.
He sets me on my feet and reaches around me to run the water in the small shower. He tests it then, looks at me, takes the blanket from me.
I shudder.
He walks me into the shower and turns me to face him.
Hot water runs over me, washing the salt from my soaked hair, warming my body. It also makes the welts on my skin and my raw wrists burn. I want it though. I need the heat. I need to get what just happened off my body.
I watch him look me over and I wonder what he’s thinking. He looks so pained. I guess I don’t expect that.
He reaches a hand out, drenched button-down stuck to him. It’s what he was wearing at the wedding, I realize. God. It feels like years have passed since then. He runs a finger over the topmost welt. I hiss in a breath and he draws back, inhaling tightly himself.
His eyes are a midnight sky when they meet mine. “What else did he do?” His voice is hoarse, tortured.
Words bubble up inside me and it’s like my throat is filled with sea water again.
What else did he do?
Where do I start?
When the tears come, I drop my head. When his big hand closes around my neck to pull me into his chest, I don’t resist. I don’t want to. I don’t have any energy left.